


Unexpected Plan Of Escape

by Amsare



Category: BioShock
Genre: M/M, Mild Blood, Mind Control, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, Would You Kindly (BioShock)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7661356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amsare/pseuds/Amsare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>They were all actors playing on Frank Fontaine's favourite stage, and the worst thing about it, was not knowing the end of the play. Jack wondered if he had gone mad: he was starting to sound like Sander Cohen.</i><br/> </p><p>Jack must escape from Rapture, he cannot let <i>him</i> win. </p><p>Not again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected Plan Of Escape

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic Jack is imprisoned by Atlas/Fontaine soon after he arrives to Rapture, which means mind control still works on him.

"It's getting kind of boring, you know?"  
   
  
No, not again! Not this time, Jack had studied his plan countless times before, how did he get caught again?  
   
  
Atlas – _Frank Fontaine_ – has been waiting for him near the bathysphere door, which would have been Jack's freedom and salvation: it seemed so close and yet so far away from him.  
   
  
"You can come out, boyo. I won't punish you."  
   
  
As if Jack would have believed him – all the things that monster said were lies, had always been lies – so he stayed under the bench where he was hiding.  
           
                                                                                                                   
Atlas sighed, "I didn't want to do it, but you leave me no choice."  
   
  
Jack closed his eyes, heart beating hard in his chest: he knew what was about to come.  
   
  
"Would you kindly come out?"  
   
  
His legs moved as if they had their own mind, standing up and going right in the middle of the room; Jack looked at the door behind Atlas feeling more hopeless than ever.  
   
  
"There you are," Atlas said pleased with himself, grin on his face, "I must confess I'm surprised by how far you got this time. You even disabled the cameras! Well done."  
   
  
Jack gritted his teeth and clenched his fists so hard that he could feel his nails digging into his own flesh: frustration, anger, disappointment were burning inside of him as he could just stay there and listen to that psycho.  
   
  
Atlas pulled out of his jeans a shortwave radio – _god_ , how much he hated that thing, how much he wanted to use it to hit him on his head – and spoke, "I've found him near the bathysphere in section D, Jimbo, call back the others."  
   
  
The radio crackled, "alright boss!" and then it went silent.  
   
  
Jack shuddered at hearing Jimbo's voice: he still did not understand how that man, along with the others, could live down that doomed city. Was it possible that they had no reason left to live? Atlas' – _Fontaine's_ – power was really so strong over them? All that he needed was some ADAM to give and they did whatever he wanted.  
   
Unbelievable: they were all actors playing on Frank Fontaine's favourite stage, and the worst thing about it, was not knowing the end of the play. Jack wondered if he had gone mad: he was starting to sound like Sander Cohen.  
   
  
"Let's bring you back to your room," Atlas said, putting away the radio and taking the gun in his hand instead; obviously, it was not for Jack but for the splicers they could meet on their way.  
   
  
Yes, _splicers_ : some of them were not dead yet, lurking in the dark or singing all by themselves sad old songs. And no, not all of them were under the influence of the new leader of Rapture: it seemed that they had some sort of affection for the last one, _Andrew Ryan_ , so that simple pheromones in the air were not enough to control them. Instead of taking care of the problem once for all, Atlas had just instructed his men to shoot them at sight: some accidents had happened but that was it.  
   
Strange but true, Big Daddies and Little Sisters were the last of his problem: they kept on doing their job, collecting ADAM from corpses and wandering around the city halls and corridors. Jack's heart cringed at that thought: he had tried to save those little girls as soon as he had arrived there, trying to survive the nightmare he was in but Atlas – _no, Fontaine_ – had got them. He had found them in the sanctuary Brigid Tenenbaum had created to keep them safe so that he turned them into mindless monsters again – machines due to the production of ADAM.  
   
  
_Brigid..._  
   
  
Jack dreamed of her brutal murder nearly every night: how the man Jack had trusted as a friend, _his Atlas_ , had mercilessly shot Brigid in the head soon after his men took the crying girls away from their beds, pencils and toys.  
   
She had been brave, staring at her killer right into his eyes; she did not look at Jack, not even once.  
   
  
_Fontaine will pay, I swear, he will pay for everything he did to you._  
   
  
"Cat got your tongue?" Atlas asked amused.  
   
  
Jack glared at him.  
   
  
He had to make up another plan, a proper one, getting back to his old self: he owed it to Brigid, to the girls. Maybe there was some cure for them, hidden somewhere in Rapture: he could not believe that Fontaine had won for real.  
   
  
  
They walked in silence, steps echoing through the dark dirty corridors. The stench was so nauseous that would have made any other person sick but Jack was used to it by then: death, blood, vomit and sea air mixed all together.  
That was Rapture – a real _rapture_ indeed.  
   
  
"I'm still waiting for an answer, you know, I've always wanted to be an actress and Sander Cohen had said I would have been a star here in Rapture! Yes, yes, yes, probably he's just busy, creating some new masterpiece, that's why he can't talk to me now, but I'm patient, I've always been, I'll be good..."  
   
  
There was a woman not far from them, right at the bottom of the stairs to Fontaine's quarters: she was wearing a long red dress, which had seen better days as it was ripped and dirty. Her black hair was a mess, some of it was missing; she was barefoot, but she had a pair of gloves covering her hands. Thinking about how some spliced women had become, she was not the worst of them.  
   
  
"Miss," Atlas called her, gripping his gun tight, "miss, may I talk to you for a second?"  
   
  
Jack rolled his eyes, tired of that situation. Fontaine had been an actor, after all: for Jack and his gang he was Atlas while for some spliced chicks he pretended to be the gentleman he was not.  
   
  
_Dirty sick bastard._  
   
  
The woman turned his head back to look at them and Jack finally could see her in the dim light: she had a pale face and her glassy-eyes were far away from there. She was not as horrible as the other splicers: maybe she was just lost, poor woman.  
   
  
"Who are you? It's my turn, isn't? I'll do my audition, right?"  
   
  
"Hi Miss, I'm Atlas. You've probably heard about me, love."  
   
  
The woman blinked a couple of time, staring at him as she was trying to remember who he was; then, she made a little jump, clapping her hands, "Atlas, that Atlas, the man on the posters? You must be important, then!"  
   
  
Smiling like a mad, she was creepier than before: she made a couple of steps towards them even if she stumbled a little.  
   
  
Atlas laughed, "easy, love," and he slid the gun into the back of his jeans.  
   
  
"What are you doing?" Jack asked him through his teeth; that show was getting ridiculous.  
   
  
"I want to help a fellow citizen. What does it look to you?" Atlas was clearly making fun of her just to provoke him: Jack was well aware of it, but what could he do? Pretending he was not looking at that scene? Of ‘course Jack had to ask.  
   
  
Atlas took the woman's hand in his own, pulling her to his chest: she looked even smaller and frailer, giggling like a little schoolgirl.  
   
  
"Will you take me to talk to Sander Cohen? He doesn't answer to me but maybe he'll talk to you, _Atlas_ ," the way she said his name was a mock of a flirt and the effect was pathetic; if Atlas had thought the same, he did not show it as he smiled at her as if they were lovers.  
   
  
"Sander Cohen, uh? It can be done, love, for a little price, though," he murmured, caressing her cheek lightly.  
   
  
She opened her eyes wide, mouth half open in surprise, "but I have nothing I can give you!"  
   
  
Atlas grinned, eyes shining maliciously. He put one hand on her hip, the other stroking gently the white skin of her neck, "well, maybe you _do_ have something I could desire..."  
   
  
_Oh, fuck._  
   
  
"Stop it," Jack snapped, adrenaline flowing through his veins. That was enough for that night. "I know what you're doing, you want me to do something, I get it. Well, I’m speaking now. Leave her alone.”  
   
  
Atlas had turned his head as soon as Jack had spoken, "why should I, boyo? You really surprise me, I thought you were the one who wanted to help people 'round here."  
   
  
Jack wished he had the power to silence him once for all. "She's nuts, she doesn't need you."  
   
  
The woman made a high pitch sound, hugging Atlas. "I need him, I need him!"  
   
  
But Atlas was not playing anymore: he left her, pushing her away and taking out his gun. "Sorry, love, but my friend thinks you need no help from me."  
   
  
He shot her in the chest: she was dead way before hitting the ground.  
  
  
"W-Why?!"  
   
  
"She was nuts, you said that. Besides, I fucked whores sexier than that thing. Hell, I fucked _you_." Atlas laughed at his own joke, pleased with himself.  
   
  
Jack was staring at the poor woman lying on the floor in a pool of blood, his jaw tightening and teeth gritting: one day or another, soon, he would have killed him, he would have had justice.  
   
  
  
They got to his room undisturbed – _his cell_ – as they did not meet anybody except for two of Atlas' gang who were waiting for them. One of the man spitted on the floor, defiant look on his scruffy face.  
   
  
"He knocked old Sean off, boss. He's a real bastard, this one," the man said pointing one chubby finger at Jack's face.  
   
  
Jack resisted the urge to bite it off.  
   
  
"Well, _Sean_ was the idiot who let the door open. Should I remember you how this bastard had killed hundreds of splicers all by himself with a wrench? You’re lucky he’s got no EVE to use Plasmids as he did before or you’ll be dead." Atlas opened the door, pushing Jack inside carelessly. Then, he spoke to his men again, "go now, I'll take care of him."  
   
  
They looked at each other but then they obeyed to Atlas, walking away from the corridor, their steps echoing in the air.  
   
  
That part of the city had become Fontaine's headquarter and it was so quiet: no splicers nor Big Daddies, drugs addicts nor freaks; as soon as his men were gone, the only sound was the buzzing of the lights.  
   
  
Jack sat down on his bed, springs squeaking under his weight; he folded his arms and waited for Atlas to begin his interrogation.  
   
"So," he said, closing the door behind him, "how did you manage to get out of here this time? I wanna hear your version."  
   
Jack glared at him, considering the idea of keeping his mouth shut, but with no doubts Atlas would have used the WYK phrase to make him talk anyway. He did not want to give him the satisfaction so he answered, "I pretended to be sick and Sean, one of your man, opened the door to check on me. I knocked him off, stole his gun and got out. Easy."  
   
  
Atlas hummed in appreciation. "Well, my men are not famous for their intelligence. They tend to underestimate you and it's a big mistake."  
   
  
That was the time for compliments: every time Jack got caught, Atlas had to praise him as if he were some sort of little schoolboy. As soon as he would have finished, Jack knew exactly what would have happened next.  
   
_This is another Fontaine’s play where he’s both director and actor, playing the loving father and the executioner at the same time._  
   
  
Atlas walked towards him, sitting next to him on the grey mattress; Jack closed his eyes, waiting.  
   
  
"Would you kindly came out with another plan, right now?"  
   
  
There was like something clicking in Jack's head: his frustration faded off and his mind was racing free, making up one plan after another.  
   
   
  
_Kill the next man guarding the door, use some metal scrap and make yourself a weapon, steal Atlas' gun..._  
   
   
  
_Steal Atlas' gun._  
   
  
   
That was it.  
   
   
That was his next move.  
   
   
_Steal Atlas' gun._  
   
   
"You say I'm getting boring, trying always to escape. But you're the one who's telling me to do it. Why?"  
   
   
Atlas tilted his head, looking at the young man with strong interest.  
   
   
"I expect a challenge from you. I want to see you try time after time even if in the end, you'll never succeed."  
   
   
"You cannot be so sure. One day I'll be out of here thanks to you," Jack replied coldly.  
   
   
Atlas laughed at him. "Oh, boyo. Do you really wanna know the truth? Then I'd be the bad guy, spoiling all the fun for you."  
   
   
Jack was confused by that answer; he shifted on the bed uncomfortably, asking, "what are you talking about?"  
   
   
Atlas put two fingers under the young man's chin, lifting his face: Jack noticed that there was a mischievous glimpse into his eyes. "I didn't limit myself to ask you to make up an escape plan time after time," he murmured, "the first time I came up with this idea, I made a very specific order which would have forbidden you to leave this place for real."  
   
   
"What?"  
   
   
"You heard me well," Atlas smirked, "you'll stay here in Rapture no matter how many fucking ideas you'll have, 'cause there will always be a flaw. You're my personal toy, boyo, and just the idea of your little brain trying to come up with a new useless plan in this very moment, it makes me so _aroused_ ," and with that, he closed the distance between them to kiss him hard on his mouth.  
   
   
It had nothing of romantic nor gentle as that kiss was another kind of way to take whatever dignity had Jack left.  
   
   
_You can do it, Jack, you're smarter, stronger, he's bluffing, he's crazy._  
   
   
His arms moved as if they had their own mind: he pushed Atlas on the mattress, pinning him down under his weight and deepening the kiss. Then, wasting no more time, he kissed his neck, opened his shirt and _worshipped_ him properly, tasting the salty skin under there.  
   
   
_That’s it, give him what he wants and steal the gun._  
   
   
"Eager, are we?"  
   
   
_Oh, you have no idea._  
   
   
He unbuckled Atlas' belt and lowered his jeans just enough to expose Atlas' cock to his gaze; gripping it at the base with a hand, Jack licked the tip and then took it into his mouth.  
   
   
Everything was instinctive, part of something bigger, part of another plan of escape; sex was one of the most common diversion after all. Since Atlas was distracted by pleasure, grabbing his gun was a child’s play.  
   
   
_Got it._  
   
   
"Good boy," Atlas murmured, unaware of what Jack was doing, "come on, suck it."  
   
   
Jack felt Atlas' hand on his head and then the man pushed himself deeper – "fuck, yes," – using him like the toy he had said he was. "Mmm, you see? You're meant to be treated like this, kid, you're so fucking..."  
   
   
In that moment, Atlas' voice was so different that made Jack shudder in disgust. Frank Fontaine was the one lying down on the mattress, _Frank Fontaine_ , the man guilty of all those deaths under the sea.  
   
   
He was not Atlas.  
   
   
That was enough.  
   
   
Jack freed himself from the man's grip, grabbing his arm and yanking it over his head and Fontaine let out a strangled groan, taken by surprise.  
   
   
"What?!"  
   
   
Jack took the gun in his hand and pointed it at Fontaine as he moved back, getting closer to the door: he could have killed the man if he wanted to, putting a bullet into his fucking brain.  
   
   
"Guess what," Jack said loading the gun, "I’m the one who fucked you this time."  
   
   
He felt his own spit dribbling down his chin, but this did not distract him; actually, it angered him even more, making him aware of his nightmarish condition.  
   
   
“I’m tired of your sick games, Fontaine.”  
   
   
_Fontaine._  
   
   
_Not Atlas._  
   
   
_Fontaine._  
   
  
“So what you’re gonna do? Pull the trigger?” Sly as he was, Fontaine used his Atlas’ voice right away. He did not dare to make a move as maybe he knew he could not push his luck for too long; he did not even try to cover himself, his hard cock still curving up towards his stomach. “It’s up to you, boyo, I won’t say anything.”  
   
   
_Do it Jack, do it, stick to the plan._  
   
   
Jack closed his eyes and –  
   
   
“Code Yellow.”  
   
   
As his heart stopped beating for a few seconds, his knees grew weaker making him fall on the floor; Jack gasped, chest burning and eyes watering.  
   
“I know, I know, I said I’d stayed quiet,” Fontaine sighed and stood up, “but you seemed too much determined with that gun in your hand for my taste. Sorry.”  
   
Jack was writhing on the floor, watching the man standing up from the bed to kick the gun away. Fontaine was now looking down at him, expectant.  
   
“Now, boyo,” he said, touching himself like nothing had happened, “would you kindly finish what we’ve started?”  
   
   
_Another plan, work it out Jack, another plan._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on tumblr! [ http://writing-in-rapture.tumblr.com/](http://writing-in-rapture.tumblr.com)


End file.
